Down the slope from you is the Ancient Agora, and almost all of it is ankle-high — foundations, cut stone, the outlines of rooms where the walls used to be. Except for one long two-storey building with a colonnade running its whole length, which is looking suspiciously well for its age.
It should. That building went up in the nineteen fifties. It's a full-scale reconstruction of a second-century shopping arcade, put back on the original foundations by American archaeologists with money from John D Rockefeller Junior. Athens let someone put up a brand new ancient building in the middle of the real ruins, then filled it with the genuine finds.
You'll hear trains through this. The electric railway to Piraeus was driven along the northern edge of the site in the eighteen nineties, years before anybody excavated it, and it's still running. Athens laid a commuter line across the birthplace of democracy and left it there.
This is the Agora, and it was the working floor of the city. Not a t
emple district — the place where Athens did its admin. Courts, council house, records office, market, and the place every citizen loitered. The Greek word for it is agora, which is also the root of agoraphobia — a condition that means, translated strictly, fear of this exact square.
It's also where they invented a procedure that has no modern equivalent, and I have looked.
Once a year, the assem





